In the Shadow of the Wall (27 page)

Curtius woke him early the next morning. Brude’s head was sore from the wine and he cursed Curtius for waking him on the first day in eight years that he had had the chance to sleep late. Poppaea mumbled and stirred on the bed but did not wake. Curtius threw Brude’s clothes at him and told him to get dressed. “We have six funerals to attend,” he snapped.

As well as Brude’s discarded clothes, Curtius had found Brude’s wooden sword, which he had left lying in the dining room, still wrapped in a piece of cloth. Brude could not face breakfast so Curtius led him through the still sleeping household, out through the atrium, the small courtyard open to the skies at the front of the house, and into the streets of
Rome
.

It was the second hour but the summer sun was already hot. Curtius apparently knew where he was going so Brude tagged along, his stomach churning and his head thumping. They had only gone a short distance when he had to stop to throw up in the gutter. Passers-by moved to avoid the unpleasantness but Curtius, who seemed to be happiest when he had something to complain about, laughed. “Too much wine and too much rich food, lad,” he chuckled. “I expect you’ll feel better now, though.” He hauled Brude upright, forcing him to walk on, heading towards the centre of the city. Brude could make out the top of the Flavian amphitheatre occasionally peeking over the roofs of the high tenement blocks that housed most of
Rome
’s inhabitants. Curtius asked him, “So what do you think of Trimalchio?”

Brude smiled weakly. “He’s an ass, but he throws a good dinner party.”

“Glad you’ve been paying attention,” Curtius said grimly. “You’ll be well fed at his house and have your pick of the women. For a while at least, until they get bored of you. Just watch you don’t overdo the good eating or you’ll end up as fat as Trimalchio.”

Brude didn’t want that to happen. He had never seen anyone as fat as Trimalchio and said so to Curtius. “That’s because he has nothing to do except make money and spend it on food,” the old lanista told him. “Whatever else he is, the man’s got a fine business brain. He’s richer than most people in the city, including some senators. That’s why he has all those hangers-on and whores at his house every evening.”

“Poppaea’s not a whore,” said Brude sharply.

Curtius grunted. “Not the way the street girls are, maybe. Her husband’s a merchant. He’s away a lot, working for Trimalchio. She has to eat so she either buys her own food from what money her husband leaves her while he’s away or, like a lot of Romans do, she gets herself invited to other people’s houses for dinner. She gets invited there a lot. In fact she gets invitations to lots of homes because people know she’s free and easy with who she sleeps with.”

Brude did not reply. Poppaea had certainly seemed very keen on him but he wondered now whether Curtius was right. He decided to reserve judgement. Curtius saw his expression and laughed his grim laugh again. “Don’t worry, lad. Take advantage of it while you can. Just don’t expect her undying love, that’s all.”

Brude decided to change the subject. “Where are we going?”

“The forum,” answered Curtius. “We need to get your manumission papers drawn up and signed. It might take a while.”

Brude discovered that
Rome
had more than one forum. The original forum lay between the
Capitoline
and the Palatine hills, near the amphitheatre, but it was too small to cater for all of
Rome
’s commercial and legal business so various emperors had built other fora nearby. There were smaller ones devoted to market trade in cattle and vegetables but the imperial fora were great, rectangular open spaces, dotted with statues and ringed by covered porticoes which were supported by extravagantly carved columns. The fora, surrounded by temples and basilicas, were the heart of
Rome
in a way that no palace could ever be. Around the edge, market stalls and shops clustered under the shade of the porticoes. People thronged there to meet and talk, to conduct business or to show off their wealth. Brude was amazed at the noise, the bustle, the colour and the astounding variety of goods for sale; food and trinkets from all over the empire, brought to
Rome
and on offer to anyone who could afford them.

Curtius took Brude through the forum of Augustus where he marvelled at the high colonnades, each niche with a statue representing a hero of
Rome
, some of the columns carved in the shape of beautiful women. He saw the great
temple
of
Mars
the Avenger, with its huge statue of the god and dramatic carved reliefs. He wondered again at the power of
Rome
, which seemed full of incredible buildings atont>
Rome
what it was today.

The two of them edged through the crowd, making their way to the forum of Trajan, even larger than the forum of Augustus and surrounded by enormous buildings. There was a great column of shining stone, its sides decorated with carvings of Roman soldiers in action, the picture story spiralling upwards, so high that the images at the top could not be made out. On top of the column stood a statue of a Roman, shining gold in the morning sunlight. “What is that?” Brude asked Curtius, his breath taken away.

“Trajan’s column,” Curtius replied sourly. “Bastard!”

“What?” Brude was surprised at the feeling in Curtius’ tone.

“It commemorates the victory of
Rome
over
Dacia
. That’s where my family are from. My grandfather was brought here as a slave when Trajan killed our king and stole our land.”

Brude was surprised. He had always viewed Curtius as a Roman. Which he was, he supposed, but the old gladiator obviously still remembered his roots. Brude said, “That’s what the Romans do, isn’t it? They’ve built an empire by conquering other people. Even I know that.”

Curtius nodded. “I know, and there’s no beating the power of
Rome
.
Dacia
was an independent kingdom for centuries until the Romans needed some hard cash and discovered we had gold mines. There’s only ever one end to a story like that. You should just be grateful that your homeland has nothing but mud and rain. If you had anything the Romans needed, you’d find yourselves part of the empire before long.”

Brude was shocked. Back in Broch Tava, he had been brought up to believe that the Romans had been forced to abandon the lands north of the Wall because of the power of the assembled tribes. He had sometimes wondered how that could be true when every story he ever heard of battles were Roman victories. He knew from bitter experience how good the Roman army was. Now, contradicting everything Brude had been taught as a boy, Curtius was telling him the only reason the Romans had left was because the lands of the Pritani had nothing of value to offer the empire. It was a disappointing revelation but one Brude realised could well be true. Any nation that could build the things he could see all around him, and conquer tribes all over the world, would surely not be afraid of the Pritani.

Curtius took him into the shade of the portico and inside the great basilica. The place was crowded and noisy with people, many wearing togas, jostling and shouting, while others sat behind wooden tables covered with scrolls; quills and ink near at hand. It was all incredibly confusing to Brude but Curtius barged his way through, asked directions and eventually led Brude to join a queue at one of the tables. They waited nearly an hour before they had their turn at speaking to the scribe. When Curtius explained that Brude had been awarded the rudis by the emperor himself at the games, the scribe gave Brude a look of mixed admiration and suspicion. After Curtius showed him the rudis, the clerk selected a scroll, which already had a lot of writing on it. He carefully filled in some blank spaces. Brude had to give his new Roman name, which still sounded to him like it belonged to someone else, then the scribe handed him the scroll. “You need to get it signed and sealed by the praetor,” he said, waving the quill in his hand vaguely towards one end of the basilica.

Another queue and this time they waited until it was nearly
midday
before Curtius presented Brude and his scroll to the praetor, one of
Rome
’s senior magistrates. There were normally eight praetors elected each year, though in practice those who were elected were usually approved by the emperor, or at least were men he did not disapprove of. The praetors were responsible for the smooth operation of the law so they were extremely busy men. Brude’s audience lasted no more than a few heartbeats before he came away with his papers. He looked at the documents, admiring the red seal and the flourish of the signature. Curtius laughed at him. “Stop pretending you can read. Come on, we need to leave one copy here as a record. You keep the other copy safe. It’s your proof of manumission.”

Manumission. Freedom from slavery. Today, at last, Brude was living life as a free man. “Can I go home now?” he asked Curtius.

“Home? You mean that nonsense about going back to Britannia was serious?”

Brude nodded. “It wasn’t nonsense. I want to go home.”

“What for?” Curtius seemed genuinely puzzled.

“I have family there. Friends.” He wanted to say he had Mairead waiting for him but he had been away for eight years and he knew she would probably be married to someone else by now.

Curtius dragged him over to a small stall selling sweetmeats and cold drinks where he handed over a few coins to the stallholder. Then he led Brude to a shady part of the portico where they sat on a stone bench as the crowd passed by on all sides. While they ate, Curtius spoke to him earnestly, his face etched with concern. “Listen lad, you’ve been away a long time. Things in your homeland wonnt be the same as when you left. Going back is never a good idea, believe me. Anyway, how would you get there? It’s a long way and you have no money to pay for food. You can’t afford to go by sea and it would take you months to walk there. A man alone can run into all sorts of trouble on a journey like that.”

Brude had travelled enough to know how to get round that problem. “I could work for a merchant. Bodyguard! That way I’d be fed and paid while I work my way home.”

Curtius looked at him long and hard. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

With a sigh, Curtius said, “Well I think you’re mad, but then you’ve done your share of crazy things so I shouldn’t be surprised. But, if you take my advice, you’ll stay here a bit longer. Earn yourself some money before you start off on such a long journey on your own. Don’t leave
Rome
until you are sure of what you’ll be leaving behind.”

Brude wasn’t sure why Curtius was so insistent that he stayed, but he respected the old man enough to at least give his words some thought. It was only later that he realised Curtius led a lonely life that meant he had few friends and probably didn’t want to lose someone he had known for so long. Now, though, they left the forum, making their way back to the amphitheatre where they found the guards from the gladiator school waiting with two wagons already loaded with the familiar cheap, rectangular boxes which acted as coffins for the dead gladiators. Brude wondered which one held the body of Josephus. Curtius acted as though he did not much care but he was silent for most of the journey back through the busy streets which led out of the city to the school.

Lentulus was not there, probably still sleeping at Trimalchio’s house, but Curtius gathered the remaining gladiators and told them what had happened. They were pleased for Brude but saddened at the loss of so many of their companions. Pollio, still limping badly, clasped Brude’s hand warmly. “Well done, boy,” he said with feeling. “I know how hard that must have been.”

Brude nodded but could think of nothing to say. He was free while Pollio, vastly more experienced, was still a slave and would go back to the arena once his leg was healed. Brude had toyed with the idea of asking Curtius for a job as a trainer at the school but he knew now that he could not do that. He had been one of them but now he was raised above them, a free man, and he could not go back to being one of them again.